


Burden

by Pastel_Teacups



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: ??????, Happy Ending, M/M, Paralysis, Paralyzed!Jehan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1929777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pastel_Teacups/pseuds/Pastel_Teacups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything is perfect for Jehan and Courfeyrac.  Until the accident, that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burden

Everything was going perfectly. 

Courfeyrac had just gotten a shiny new job at a large firm, Jehan’s poetry was in every magazine in France, and they were getting the wedding of their dreams. 

They were the happiest they’d been in years. Everything was perfect. 

“Courf,” Jehan called, hardly looking up from his laptop. “Which color for the flowers? I like the lavender ones, but I’m not sure for the venue. It could be too much.” 

“I liked red.” Enjolras offered, leaning back in his seat with an easy smile. 

“You could always paint the roses red.” Grantaire offered, laughing at his own reference when nobody else did. 

They’d all gathered at the Musain, like any other Thursday night, but Enjolras had promised to not mention the cause. It was exclusively for wedding planning. 

Courfeyrac smacked the painter over the head as he passed, looking between the two pictures on Jehan’s screen. 

“There’s lavender,” he listed, nodding at the flowers. “Or this really beautiful yellow, see, it’s really bright,” he nodded, gesturing to the two photos. 

“Which ones do you like?” Courfeyrac responded, looking away from the screen to Jehan. 

Jehan shrugged softly, leaning back in his seat. “I don’t know. I like the yellow best, but-” 

“Then get the yellow ones.” Courfeyrac interrupted. “It’ll look nice, with the blue ties. And dresses.” He added, nodding at Cosette and Eponine. 

Jehan leaned forward, nodding softly. “Okay. You’re right. The yellow ones. Now, on to the-” 

“Jehan,” Grantaire interrupted, standing up. “I’ve gotta walk Enjolras home. But you’ll be at mine tonight? To paint?” 

“Of course.” Jehan said, running a hand over his blonde braid and smiling gently. “I’ll be over soon. You two have fun.” 

Grantaire winked at him and nodded, letting Enjolras pull him out the door. “I’ll be home soon. Hang tight, bride.” 

He left, leaving Jehan to laugh softly and turn back to his laptop. “Now, for the chairs,” 

~

“Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you all the way to R’s house?” Courfeyrac asked, squeezing Jehan’s hand as they walked down the street together. 

He only smiled and shook his head, squeezing back gently. “I’ll be fine. It’s only across this street.” 

And with that they stopped at a crosswalk, their hands still entwined. The road was quiet, not a car in sight. 

“I’ll stay until you’re across.” Courfeyrac promised, smiling gently. 

Jehan smiled back, looking up at him. “How very romantic of you.” 

They parted, their hands the last thing to touch. Jehan finally turned away to walk across, his blonde braid swinging with the wind. 

And then, as if out of nowhere, a car came into view. 

It seemed, from Courfeyrac’s place, as if everything moved in slow motion. The car, skidding into view and making its way toward Jehan in snapshots, was large. Too large. And Jehan, not looking up from where he was until the last minute, parting his lips in sudden horror and panic. 

He didn’t have time to move. 

All at once, it happened. 

The world came back into real time and the car struck Jehan, skidding onto its side and landing partially on Courfeyrac’s fiance. 

He wasn’t quite sure how, but his phone had already been dialed and the woman on the other line was asking for the second time what his emergency was. 

Passing his phone to a stranger that’d come into his view, he ran towards the wrecked car and fell to his knees beside Jehan. 

“J-”

“My legs, Courf, my legs, I-” 

Courfeyrac looked down. 

They were stuck. Under the very car that’d hit him. 

“It’s-it’s okay, we’ll get them out, it’s-” His voice was shaky as were his hands, which hovered over Jehan’s torso, unsure of where to put them. 

“No-no my legs, Courf, I-I can’t feel them.” 

~

“This is the Lamarque firm, to whom am I speaking?” 

“It’s Courfeyrac. I’ll be taking my vacation time.” 

“All of it?” 

A pause. 

“All of it.” 

~

When Jehan woke up, it was with a headache. 

Not only that. His head hurt, but the rest of him _ached._ His arms, his shoulders, his sides, his-

Odd. 

His legs didn’t hurt. His legs didn’t feel like anything. There was nothing. 

He opened his eyes and looked up, trying to get some grip on his surroundings. 

A hospital room. That was where he was. Namely, in a hospital bed. A patient. That was all he could think of.

Why was he there? The last thing he could remember, the very last thing, was him turning to walk across the street, was him saying goodbye to his Courfeyrac. 

That was it. 

But it was a voice that pulled him from his thoughts. 

“Hey.” Courfeyrac stood up from where he was laying on the sofa, brown eyes wide. “You’re awake. How’re you-” 

He was cut off by doctors swarming in, holding charts and leaving Courfeyrac in the back of the room, mouth still open in question. 

After the doctors cleared away, after they’d taken their notes and left in thoughtful discussion, they were again alone. 

Jehan sat up and looked around, confusion and fright one of the many expressions coloring his face. “Courf?” 

The brunette rushed forward and found Jehan’s left hand, gripping it carefully. “Hey, yeah, I’m here, hi.” 

“What’s going on?” He asked, looking up at him. He tightened his hold on Courfeyrac’s hand, breaths erratic and afraid. “Why am I here? Why can’t I feel my legs?” 

Courfeyrac sighed gently, looking down at their intertwined hands. “They said you might not remember it. You were hit by a car.” He ran a finger across the silver band Jehan wore. “You-you’re-” 

He huffed, pushing his free hand through his hair. He couldn’t do it. 

But then Jehan looked at him, and his eyes were so terrified and nervous and _green._ He couldn’t, but he had to. 

“They-the doctors are saying that, well, because the car landed and-” He nearly winced, shaking his head. “You were paralyzed.” 

There was a moment of deafening silence, and Jehan looked away. “-Oh. I-okay.” 

“Are you-” 

“No.” Jehan said softly, squeezing his hand weakly. “Yeah.” 

~

“How is he?” 

“The doctors told me he’ll be okay. He’s taking it pretty well-” 

“This is all my fault.” 

It was Grantaire that said it, sitting in one of the terrible waiting room chairs. 

They’d all gathered there as soon as news had spread. Enjolras was pacing, Grantaire was stewing, Combeferre was leaning against the wall in thought. Joly was still in his scrubs, fresh off a shift, and Bossuet was quietly suggesting he change into the fresh street clothes he’d brought along. Bahorel was cracking his knuckles, Fieully was frantically trying to cover his work shifts, and Marius was sitting beside Cosette with a nervous look on his face. Eponine had come along, too, pacing next to Enjolras. 

“Don’t you dare say that.” Eponine ordered, shaking her head. “This is nobody’s fault but that driver, what was his name?”   
“Claqesous,” Cosette supplied for her girlfriend, shaking her head softly. 

“Right, Claqesous.” Eponine pushed a hand through her hair, throwing herself into a chair beside Cosette. 

Enjolras nodded, still anxiously moving about the waiting room. “We’re suing. Marius and I’ve already talked about it. He’s already in trouble, facing quite a bit of prison time. It’ll be easy.” 

“Bastard.” Grantaire offered from the corner. 

There was a low murmur of agreement. 

“How much longer until we see him?” Bahorel asked, looking to Joly. 

He only shook his head, finally accepting the bundle of clothes from his boyfriend and tugging off his shirt, not bothering to go somewhere more private than the near-silent waiting room as he shed his scrubs and pulled on the pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. “Whenever Courf lets us in.”

 

“Guys,” Courfeyrac appeared in the doorway, no more and a disembodied head from behind the door. “He’s ready.”

~

It took them all a while to settle into the small room, and when they did, it seemed infinitely smaller. 

Then, Jehan burst into tears. 

Everybody stood there, bewildered, and watched as Courfeyrac surged forward. His hand found Jehan’s, and he spoke in a near-silent voice to him for a few moments. The blonde boy on the bed slowly calmed. 

After a while, the unspoken question was asked. “Should we go?” 

“No.” Jehan’s voice, fragile as glass, sounded, and he closed his eyes for a moment. “No. Please. Stay.” 

So, as if it was just another day, they crowded around his bed. Only a few things were different. Grantaire sat next to Jehan, as close as he could get, occupying the younger’s right hand and watching him with concern. Courfeyrac was at his other side, stroking his thumb over the back of Jehan’s soft hand. Enjolras was standing behind Grantaire, trying to smile as he carried a sad excuse of a conversation with Jehan. Joly was peering at his chart, Combeferre reading over his shoulder. Bossuet was standing with his hands in his pockets, too afraid to move should he break something. Marius was standing beside Fiuelly behind Cosette and Eponine, who were holding hands at the foot of Jehan’s bed. Bahorel was still pacing in the back of the room, hands running through his hair. 

“Jehan, how do you feel?” Enjolras asked, looking down at him. He looked thinner, with dark circles under his green eyes. He didn’t look good. 

“Alright.” The boy replied, nodding softly. “A bit odd.” 

“Odd?” Bahorel replied, looking unsure. “Odd how?”

“Just . . . odd. I don’t know how to describe it.” He sniffled, letting Grantaire wipe the tears off of his face with his free hand. The rough pads of the artist’s fingers were a small comfort, and he glanced up at the others. “You all look so sad. I don’t want you to be sad.” 

Courfeyrac looked up at them, his eyes finally straying from Jehan.  
They did look sad.

Nobody said anything for a while. Then, Joly spoke. 

“Do you want to tell us what you remember?” 

“Joly . . .” 

“It’s better to be able to come to terms with the accident than to fear it.” 

“It’s fine,” Jehan said dismissively, leaning back against his many pillows. “I don’t remember anything. Just . . . leaving Courfeyrac. Our hands pulling apart. That’s it.” 

Another moment of silence. 

“You don’t remember anything? At all? 

It was Combeferre’s question, looking at him with concern. 

Jehan shook his head lightly, glancing up at him. “Not at all.” 

“That’s unusual.” Joly interjected, glancing up to Combeferre and down to Jehan. “Isn’t it?”   
Combeferre bit his lip, nodding softly. “It isn’t the most common thing, but it’s happened before.” 

Joly looked away, worry still in his eyes. “How much longer until you can go home?” 

“He can’t come back to our flat until the landlord gets the elevator fixed. I called, and he promised it’d be fixed by the end of this week. He’s getting released tomorrow, but . . . I don’t-we don’t- have a place for him to stay. 

“He can stay with me.” Grantaire offered immediately, squeezing Jehan’s hand tightly. They’d been best friends since primary school. They were inseparable. 

Courfeyrac looked up, eyes filling with tears as he nodded. “Thank you.” He whispered. 

~

“You know where everything is.” Grantaire said, rolling Jehan’s new wheelchair through his flat. “Sorry about the wall. We were-” 

“Supposed to paint it.” Jehan said, looking up at the already-primed wall. “We still can.” 

Grantaire only shook his head, eyes not moving from the blank wall. “No. I’ve got a new idea for it. It’s a surprise. But I’ll need your help with it. I’ll let you know when.” 

Jehan took a deep breath, nodding softly. “Okay. And remember, physical therapy is on-” 

“-Thursday, I know.” Grantaire finished for him, wheeling Jehan to sit beside the couch, before sitting down next to him. “Courf is going to take you.” 

The blonde boy nodded, pushing a hand through his hair. “Okay. Okay.” 

“Hey,” Grantaire said, putting a hand on Jehan’s shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay.” 

Jehan glanced up at him, blinking softly. “Okay,” He whispered, finding Grantaire’s hand and gripping it tightly. 

~

On Thursday, as promised, Courfeyrac knocked on Grantaire’s door, a smile plastered on his face. 

It was a smile more nervous than the one he wore on his and Jehan’s first date. 

Grantaire opened the door covered in paint, and smiled smally. “Hey.”   
They exchanged hellos and nervous smiles, before Courfeyrac stepped in. 

Jehan was in the midst of trying to wheel out of the hall and into the main room, but he couldn’t seem to make it on his own. 

“Hey.” Courfeyrac said, rushing forward. “Here, let me.” 

“I’m supposed to be able to do it myself.” Jehan protested, but moved his hands from the wheels once Courfeyrac kissed his cheek and moved behind him. 

He started pushing, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t get discouraged. It’s only been three days. They’ll help you.” 

“There’s no hope for me being able to walk again.” He reminded, leaning his head back. 

“I know. They’ll be able to teach you how to move around, though. Without your legs.” Courfeyrac tried to comfort, waving at Grantaire as he wheeled Jehan out the open door. “The landlord had the elevator fixed. So we can go home.” 

We. 

It simply didn’t feel like home without Jehan.   
A slight smile. 

“Good. That’s good. I miss home.” 

~

When they walked-or rather, wheeled- into the room, who was to stand there but Musichetta. 

“Hello, boys.” She greeted with a grin, winking. “Joly and I had to pull a few strings to rearrange this, but it was worth it.” 

The small woman took the chair from Courfeyrac and pushed Jehan into the therapy room, Courfeyrac following nervously. “Now, Jehan, how are you feeling today?” 

At the question Jehan nodded softly. “Alright. No pain. Just, no feeling, either.” 

“Well, lucky you, that’s rather normal.” Musichetta replied, smiling at her own joke. “Well, I’m here to help you. We’ll be working on your upper body strength, so you’ll be strong enough to push yourself around, okay?” 

“How long will that take?” 

Shrugging, Musichetta stopped Jehan at a machine. “A while. But don’t worry about it! We’ll have tons of fun!” 

~

“Here we are,” Courfeyrac announced, pushing Jehan through the door of their flat. “Home sweet home.” 

The place hadn’t changed, save for Courfeyrac’s hopeless tidying. 

And Jehan, of course. 

He, sore from his merciless physical therapist, only yawned and rubbed his eyes. “I missed it. Especially the bed.” 

“Alright, I get the hint. To bed we shall go.” 

With that, Courfeyrac helped Jehan into their bedroom. He’d actually made the bed, for once. 

Jehan looked at it and smiled gently, the biggest and only smiled he’d given since the accident. “You made the bed.” 

~

Courfeyrac woke up to a very loud noise. 

And a yell. 

He was out of bed in seconds, eyes immediately searching the other side of the bed. 

It was empty. 

He shot up and was out of the bedroom in seconds, searching rooms as he went. 

The bathroom was empty. 

The spare room was empty. 

Empty, empty, empty. 

He dashed into the kitchen, almost afraid of what he’d find. 

But he had to know.   
“Oh, Jehan.” 

~

“How did you say he found him?” 

“He was on the ground.” Grantaire replied softly, shaking his head. “He was trying to make himself a cup of tea. He . . . he tipped over. The chair fell on top of him.” 

Joly spoke up, looking nervous. “They say he’ll be okay.” 

They were again in the waiting room of the hospital, waiting in anxiety for the word on Jehan. Joly was still on duty, dressed in clean scrubs and holding a clipboard. 

“He’s going to be upset.” Enjolras said, shaking his head. 

“He’s not going to smile for weeks.” Gavroche piped up, perched in his chair. 

“I wouldn’t say weeks.” 

It was Jehan, pushed into the waiting room by Courfeyrac. He did have a light smile on his face, if only for the sake of their young friend. His smile, though small and unsure, had already succeeded in brightening the room. 

“Jehan! You’re alright!” Joly exclaimed, smiling as everybody flocked around his chair. 

The young man nodded, leaning back a bit. He loved his friends. He felt safe around them. “It was just a little slip. You didn’t all have to come-”

“But we wanted to-” 

“But you didn’t have to-” 

“Jehan.” 

Grantaire’s voice was firm, and his fingers tightened around Jehan’s hand. 

“We wanted to.” 

There was a beat of silence. 

“Okay. Thank you.” 

But his smile had faded, and he seemed to sink in his chair. 

Grantaire, sensing his mistake, sighed gently and looked down at their hands. 

Somebody started another conversation, and he took the small opportunity of privacy with Jehan. 

“Sorry.” He whispered, glancing up at him. “I just . . . you’re so stubborn. We’re trying to help.” 

“I know,” Jehan nodded, looking away. 

Grantaire moved so that he could look into Jehan’s eyes, watching. “Let us help you.” 

There was another long beat of silence, before Jehan nodded again. 

“Okay.” 

The painter smiled reassuringly, squeezing his hand. “Okay. Good.” He watched him a moment, before leaning in closer. 

“I’ll need your help on that wall.” 

It seemed to brighten his mood, and he nodded. “Of course. How does tomorrow sound?” 

The smile on Grantaire’s face was priceless, and he leaned in to kiss Jehan’s cheek. “Perfect.” 

~

“Hey.” 

The word was quiet, a mere whisper in the dark bedroom. The words that followed were even quieter. 

“Why are you crying?” 

Jehan sniffled, looking away. “I don’t think we should get married anymore, Courf.” 

It took a moment, for his words to register. When they did, Courfeyrac paused. His hands stilled, his small touches ceased. 

“What?” 

“It’s just, like, with everything that’s going on, and my- you know, I-” 

He shook his head, covering his face with his hands. “I just don’t- I don’t think-you don’t want me.” 

Courfeyrac stared at him for a long moment, before shaking his head. “What? no, Jehan, no, I want you.” 

“No, you don’t. I-Not with all of this going on.” 

“Jehan.”   
His voice was firm, and he pulled Jehan tightly to him. 

“I _desperately_ want to marry you. If you want to delay the wedding a few months, years, fine. But unless you truly want me to leave, don’t ask me to. Because I won’t. Not unless you really don’t want me.” 

The blonde seemed to go quiet for a while, before he burst into tears and leaned towards Courfeyrac. 

“Okay.” Jehan sobbed, fisting a hand in the brunette’s shirt. “Okay. Don’t leave.” 

“I won’t,” he swore, pulling Jehan close. “I won’t.” 

~

“You don’t need to walk me across the street.” 

“The hell I don’t.” Courfeyrac replied lowly, shaking his head softly. 

Jehan glanced up at him, biting his lip. “Alright.” 

Accept help. 

He was trying. 

“But I can get through to his flat once I’m in the building, okay?” 

“Jehan . . .” 

“Let me.” He said, voice strong. “I can do it.” 

Courfeyrac reluctantly allowed it, letting him reach up for the elevator call button. He wanted desperately to help, but he knew that Jehan would be upset with him. 

The elevator doors inched open, and Jehan rolled in. “You can go, Courf. I’ll call you when I want to go home.” 

“You sure you’ll be okay?” 

Jehan smiled gently. “You can’t watch over me forever. I can handle myself.” 

He was right. Of course he was. Courfeyrac nodded, backing away towards the door. “Alright. You just call when you need me, alright?” 

“Alright.” He pressed the _6_ button and smiled, even as the doors closed. “Bye, Courf.” 

“Bye, fiance.” 

~

Grantaire opened the door with such a wide grin that one would think he just won the lottery.

Jehan, knowing his friend to be his usual cynical self, was immediately concerned. “What? What’ve you done?” 

The painter(as if was clear by his stained clothes) only smiled down at him, and didn’t bother to try to offer help as Jehan got himself into the flat. “Just come look at the wall.” 

The poet nervously managed into the livingroom, his breath catching the moment his eyes landed on the wall. 

“Oh, ‘Taire.” 

It was him. Or it was meant to be him. It could be seen as nothing more than a silhouette filled with black, a purple and orange and gold sunset behind him. His hair, seemingly caught in the wind, unwound in curles across the wall. The only break from the blackness of his silhouette was the eyes. They blazed bright green. 

“Do you like it?” Grantaire asked after allowing it a moment to sink in, glancing down at the man. 

Jehan’s eyes filled with tears, and he nodded. “I love it, R. Truly.” He took a moment, wiping his eyes. “What do you need from me?” 

Grantaire watched him fondly, gesturing to the area of the wall that was completely black. “I want you to put a poem down in that handwriting of yours.” 

“Which one?” He asked, accepting the brush and cup of white paint he was offered. 

“Whichever one you want.” 

Jehan handled his creative licence carefully, considering his choices in silence before leaning forward and carefully writing his words. 

_Here I write,_

_I have survived,_

_the gore and dust you left me._

_And I will here always survive_

_No matter what you tell me._

He lowered the paint-brush away and looked over his swirling cursive. 

“It’s beautiful.” Grantaire breathed after a moment of silence, the only noise in the flat a slight buzzing from the man’s refrigerator. “Would you sign it?” 

Jehan nodded quietly, locating the place in the corner where Grantaire had put a small, swirling _R_ and setting his name under it. 

R and Jehan Prouvaire. 

He set down the brush and paint, turning to look up at Grantaire. “Thank you.” 

“No problem,” He replied, kneeling to awkwardly embrace the boy and his chair. 

They stayed like that for a long time, friends content to simply spend an hour together.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this! Comments + Kudos are appreciated!


End file.
